


The Final Battle

by stardustqueen13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hogwarts, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustqueen13/pseuds/stardustqueen13
Summary: Harry wakes up to trauma. Draco never slept...I was angry about the fact these seventeen year old kids never had their pain talked about.
Kudos: 1





	The Final Battle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a very long time. I have a lot of feelings about how life may have happened after the war. Please enjoy!

Harry Potter won the war, but that didn't stop him from thinking that waking up the next day was the biggest battle of his life. 

When he opened his eyes he immediately remembered the war. He wasn't sure if he dreamed his victory, what if it wasn't truly over? He wasn't sure where he was, he just knew he was safe for a moment. Snatchers haven't caught up yet. Maybe he's safe.

Noise started to filter in. He started to recognize the voices, but his eyes couldn't focus. Glasses. Where were his glasses? He dropped his hand off the cot, and tried to feel the tent floor, but instead it slammed against hard marble and debris. Pain and panic started to set in. Shit, what if he's not safe? Why did his ribs hurt so goddamn much? What if he was still at Malfoy Manor, in that cold and dark dungeon. Was it a dungeon? Would Malfoy just call it a basement? Shit. He slowly moved his hand against the marble floor, trying not to alert the voices that he was awake. He felt the edge of his glasses, and he slowly lifted them to his face. As the world came into focus he slowly started to calm down. As calm as a recent war hero could be, at least.

He was in a corridor at Hogwarts. He was safe. He was alive. He slowly sat up, there seemed to be blankets and cots down the entire corridor, with people laying or sitting on them, covered in dirt, wounds and blood. Many of the people had a look in their eyes that showed they were also struggling to believe they were safe. He made eye contact with a girl who must have been fourteen. She looked like she had fought as hard, if not harder, than he did. She looked like she was between crying and lashing out at him for being there. He looked down at his lap. He understood. He wanted to cry too. He wanted to lash out too. 

People were dead. People he loved had died. Because of him. If he had never been born maybe Tonks would still be alive. Maybe Sirius would be alive. Maybe his parents would be alive. 

He looked at his hands, and was disgusted - not for the first time in his life - at how dirty they were. His dark skin was covered in dirt and blood. He had dried blood under his nails and in the swirls of his fingerprints. He tried to focus on that. Focus on something stupid, and maybe he won't lash out at the world for being alive. Focus on breathing, and maybe he would find it in himself to be grateful for coming back from the dead. Focus on the feel of the rough, probably transfigured, sheet and maybe he would find it in himself to get up and find Ron and Hermione. 

Fred. Shit Fred was dead. He basically killed Fred. One of his own brothers. The closest thing to a family he had ever had and he fucking killed him. Fuck. He started to panic again. What would they do? How could they ever look at Harry again and not hate him. He started this war by being born. Shit. Harry gripped the rough sheet. He saw dried blood flake off onto the off-white fabric. He tried to control his breathing, but luckily nobody around him noticed the panic attack coming on. Everybody around him felt the same pain. The same anger. The same sadness. He wasn't special because he was Harry Potter, and death proved that to him. 

He didn't cry. His face hurt. He wanted to cry. But he didn't. He crawled up, out of the cot and started to limp in the direction of the Great Hall, where the dead were laid out. He needed to see. He needed to see what his life had caused. He needed to see them. Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Colin. Lavender. So many people. Did anybody get Crabbe's body from the Room of Requirement? Was it still on fire? Did his body turn to ash? 

He didn't stop to tell himself he shouldn't care about a dead Death Eater. Crabbe was another kid lost in an old man's war, just like himself. Just like Malfoy. Just like Hermione and Ron and Luna and Ginny and Neville and- he stopped himself and leaned against a wall. Why did dead old men continue to fuck up life for everybody. Why wasn't he angry for them living? Why was he angry at himself? He just saved the entire Wizarding World from Albus Dumbledore's mistakes. He just fixed everything Dumbledore messed up. Even Aberforth fought alongside him. 

He started moving again, using the wall as support. His legs were sore, and his ribs still hurt. He let himself stew in anger for Albus Dumbledore, and was not surprised when there was anger for Severus Snape as well. Old foolish men asking children to clean up their mistakes. How pathetic. 

Harry had forgotten, somehow, that Hogwarts was huge. He knew the corridor he started in was right outside of the Hospital wing, and he knew how to get to the Great Hall from there - but he forgot how long it would take him. He had to climb over debris and crushed bodies to make his way there. He spared a quick thought to the possibility of those crushed bodies being innocent people in a foolish man's war, and shook the thought out just as quick. He needed to remember he was one of those foolish men. He helped start, and eventually finish, this war. His blood brought Voldemort back. His soul helped bring him back. Could he still speak Parseltongue? He filed that away for later. 

He stumbled over a large chunk of fallen castle wall and fell. He took a sharp breath and turned and looked at the chunk, noticing a pool of semi dried blood pooling from under it and dark brown hair pooling within that. He was half tempted to raise the rock and see if it was a Death Eater or a Hogwarts student underneath, but he knew either way that he was responsible for that death. Knowing who it was under the rubble wouldn't bring him closure, just another tally in the body count brought on by Harry Potter. 

He climbed back up, gripping the rough castle wall and almost losing his grip due to the hole blasted in it. Maybe this was where Fred died, he thought. He couldn't remember where Fred died. He just knew there was a hole where Fred died. Fred died. Fred's dead. Shit. Harry started walking again, this time trying not to think about the war. And failing, every step of the way. 

..

Draco Malfoy lost the war. It wasn't his first time losing anything, but it was the first time he felt relieved about losing. He had been awake all night, with a ministry guard standing near the end of his cot. Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, was still a Hogwarts student and needed to be treated like one - or whatever it was Pomfrey and Mcgonagall said. He was in a large room, probably an abandoned classroom, full of Slytherins and underaged Death Eaters. His cot was next to Theodore Nott's, who was now missing an eye due to a well placed slicing hex by another Hogwarts student. Because of him.

Draco let the Death Eaters in. He repaired the vanishing cabinet. His actions resulted in Albus Dumbledore being killed. His actions almost killed Ron Weasley and Katie Bell. He caused the death of so many people, so many students. Vincent was dead. Did anybody go collect his body? Was there a body anymore? Was the room still burning? Part of him was upset that the room was ruined, another - much larger - part was happy to see it go. Happy to see one of his mistakes go up in flames. 

Draco was saved by Harry Potter. The entire wizarding world was, but Draco was personally lifted out of the flames by The Boy Who Lived. He should have felt honored. Eleven year old Draco would have. But now he just felt numb. His father would be infuriated when he found out. 

Draco blinked. Would his father ever find out? He looked down at his hands. Dried blood and dirt was under his fingernails, the dried blood swirled in his fingerprints, stark against his pale skin. Which he had inherited from his parents. His pureblood parents. His perfect pureblood parents, who marked his skin with a disgusting Dark Mark for the rest of his life. He was angry at them, but he felt childish for it. His actions were his alone. His father did not force him to take the Mark. He did so of his own free will, and bragged about it afterwards. Like a fool. Severus told him he would regret it, and Draco laughed at him. Like a fool.

Merlin, he wished Severus could see him now. Draco heard he died in the war, killed by The Dark Lord. He heard he died alone. He wished he wasn't so foolish. He wished he had apologized to Potter years ago, and was able to fight alongside him in this final battle. But wishing was useless. Actions were not. 

Draco couldn't sleep all night due to this thought process. He kept going in circles. Between blaming himself and wanting to be better, he just kept drowning. Theo kept looking at him, a blank look on his face. Probably thinking that Draco was a coward. He thought he was a coward, so he wouldn't be surprised if someone else did too. 

Draco looked up, Pansy was sitting on a cot across the room. She had a bandage wrapped around her left arm, but Draco knew that Pansy wasn't marked. She must have gotten grabbed by her father in the middle of battle and used as an example. He liked to do that to her. Use her as an example to the other Slytherins of what not to do. Draco hoped he died. Pansy was staring at her own hands, and he could see tears threatening to fall. She wanted to cry. She couldn't. He wanted to hold her. He couldn't. They would look weak. The weak get eaten. He knew that she already felt weak and stupid for offering Potter, but what else could she do. She was afraid. Everybody was. Except Potter. 

Potter was never afraid. He just rushed in like an idiot and luck worked out for him all the time. Draco wondered - and not for the first time that year - how Potter did it. How did he continue to save the world and not fall right on his scarred face? Draco tried to save his family once and look at where he ended up. On a cot. On the losing side of the war. His father and mother somewhere on castle grounds. He hadn't seen them since the Ministry official took him to the holding room. 

Draco shook himself out of his thoughts and just looked at the ceiling. Maybe one day he would be able to be proud of himself. But today he just wanted to sleep. Maybe if he was never born this wouldn't have happened. Maybe Dumbledore would still be alive. Maybe Severus would still be alive. Maybe his parents would be happier. Maybe they would be proud of themselves. Draco couldn't sleep though, because that meant he might wake up. And waking up would be the worse. If he woke up, maybe losing would just be a dream. 

..


End file.
